How, exactly, you ended up on a rooftop playing Twenty Questions with Tucker Pillsbury was beyond you.

Tucker was your friend. He had been. He was one of your oldest in the industry. After everything, the two of you were always running back to each other.

Never anything more than friends.

The sun was setting, making the sky look purple and pink, and it was still pretty warm. The LA sunset plus the view of one of your apartment building’s occupant’s weed garden made for a nice night.

Tucker had a beer in one hand, but he wasn’t drinking it. He was actually laughing his ass off about the question you’d just answered, which was, Have you ever been in a threesome? and your answer had been, Not exactly.

“What do you mean, not exactly?” Tucker is literally giggling, which is probably attributed to the three empty beer bottles sitting next to him.

“I have the right to remain silent,” is all you reply.

“Okay, okay, fine. Now you gotta ask me a question.”

“Hold on, let me think,” you murmur. “Alright. Um, do you like being famous? Are you scared your fifteen minutes are going to run out or something?”

“Technically, that’s two questions, but I’ll allow it,” Tucker sets his beer down thoughtfully. “It’s fun. I like how people connect with my music and shit. It’s great, really. But honestly? It’s just… a lot of stress. Sometimes, I just want to go home, and I can’t because I’ve got a show or a deadline or an interview or something. It’s been stressful lately.”

Surprisingly deep for him.

“Yeah, I get it,” you murmur, reaching out to grab his beer and taking a sip. “I think they overwork you, actually.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs. “Give that back.”

You laugh and pass it back, and your hands brush.

It really is nice to have a friend.